


Take It, Love Me

by latinaeinstein (oneforyourfire)



Category: Block B
Genre: F/F, Genderswap, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 05:01:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17318567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/latinaeinstein
Summary: And there’s always affection there. Indulgence. Care. But tension, too, Jihyeon thinks





	Take It, Love Me

**Author's Note:**

> 2014 fic
> 
> girl fic with girl names

There are hearts in Jihyeon’s eyes, she’s sure. But she doesn’t have the presence of the mind, the shame to hide it.

Because Kyung—Park Kyung—is glowing bright under stage lights. The most secure, beautiful thing through the thick haze of bass, the hot press of other people’s bodies.

Kyung is the one with confidence to move on stage. Oversized shirt hanging off her shoulder. Mic in her hand. Jihyeon’s best friend. Classmate. Writing partner. Love.

Jihyeon doesn’t possess the boldness. Has the passion, the drive. But not the audaciousness, the cockiness. Not yet.

Kyung seems to channel theirs both as she throws her long, black hair over her shoulder, crouches down to drawl the lyrics.

She’s wearing cut off shorts, an oversized tanktop, a bright red bandeau underneath.

Boyfriend clothes, Kyung had said when deciding her outfit. They like it when I look like I’m wearing their clothes. Like when they can see a lot of skin.

(Jihyeon, Jihyeon likes it, too)

Jihyeon tugs at her own dress. Rolls her shoulders in her straps as she moves closer. It’s _tight_. Paired with fishnet. Black converse. Red lipstick. Affected nonchalance. Nervousness. Love.

And Jihyeon feels slightly out of place. Not, not as cool as she should or could or will ever be.

Here, at an EP release party. Kyung’s semi-official underground debut. The vivacious, lively, glamorous Park Kyung, they’d introduced her. Jihyeon’s got stars in her eyes, too, stumbles closer, so the barricade is pressing against her tummy. She catches Kyung’s liquid eyes. Earns her playful smirk.

And Kyung’s words are falling from her lips, in lilting, teasing, seductive half-drawls, half-rapid fire jabs. The harsh fluorescent cuts across her dark eyes, dark hair, red lips.

Kyung sways as she raps. Twirls. Stomps. Struts.

She’s easy to love in this moment. Commands it. Attention. Respect.

Even, even when not in stage. Even when not made up. Even when just Park Kyung, Jihyeon’s special dorky, cheesy, touchy Park Kyung. _Especially_ then.

Jihyeon swallows that down. Compartmentalizes. Sets it aside for later.

When she’ll change the pronouns. Blur the details. Let Kyung comfort her through the pains of unrequited love. Unaware. But indulgent. Accommodating. Perfect.

But here, now, Jihyeon cheers louder. Sways to the rhythm. Let’s it wash over her.

 

Kyung is Jihyeon’s best friend.

They sleep in the same bed sometimes. Study for the same classes. Write together, their bare legs tangled, as they scribble lines into college-ruled notebooks.

And it’s those lines that Kyung spits with a certain suave cockiness, drawls with a certain playful sensuality. They belie the fact that she’s a rookie. That she’s a _kid_. The youngest in her crew. Old enough to drink, yeah. But not—not old enough to have grown men taken aback. Not old enough to have people dropping their jaws. Whistling low. Cursing reverently.

 

Kyung’s smile when she hops off stage is brilliant, winning, beautiful, and she tugs Jihyeon into a tight, one-armed hugged, curling perfectly into her side. Jihyeon rests her head on Kyung’s shoulder. Melts into the embrace. Presses an “I’m so proud of you. You’re so amazing” right to Kyung’s upturned, smiling cheek.

Kyung drags her to one of the “VIP” rooms. For the party. The celebration. There’s alcohol, convenience store snacks, pizza—American style pizza because the EP release rapper is a Los Angeles boy with Los Angeles boy homesickness.

 

It’s the best that can be done by a college boy budget, Jihyeon thinks. As she falls into one of the three red velveteen couches. Cradles a beer to her chest, scans quickly over the boxes of pizza, the cartons of Cass, the chocopies and gummy bears scattered hapzardly and torn into eagerly by the collection of rappers.

Jihyeon, Kyung are the only women there. And Kyung, the lady of the hour, one boy pronounces, toasting her with a half opened kimbap, a crinkled smile.

Kyung preens.

Jihyeon fidgets with her own dress, almost forgets herself and pulls her thighs to her chin in a sudden show of anxiety. She clenches her hands into fists, instead. And Kyung reaches out to hold her hand, squeeze her fingers, as she laughs. Takes another swig of her beer. Falls into easy conversation.

Jihyeon drapes her legs over Kyung’s lap, as the rapper plays with her hair. Pets back her bangs to thumb at her thick eyebrows.

“There was a boy,” another points out. Later. Gesturing with his beer bottle. Tugging absently at the brim of his “Seoul City” cap. Jihyeon nods absently. Kyung grins.

“There were a _lot_ of boys.”

“No—no, a rapper. This one _asked_ about you. Beautiful collaborations, he promised.”

Jihyeon swallows hard. Feels a familiar churn low in her gut. Others wanting what she wants most. Deserving it more, too.

But Kyung dismisses him with an airy laugh. “There were _lots_ of boys,” she repeats. “Before, after the concert. I’m a hot item.”

“You, too,” he says. Turning his attention to Jihyeon. "There was this boy from Myeondong. Stars in his eyes over you. Said you were talented, too.”

“I don’t—”

“Your blog. The videos you uploaded.”

Jihyeon flushes, buries it in Kyung’s shoulder. “I don’t—I’m not—not with boys,” she murmurs softly.

“Oh,” he says.

Kyung watches her carefully for a beat. A question in her eyes, too. But then she laughs. Redirects the conversation to new mixtapes she’s been listening to. How she’s been looking for more beats to sample in her own work.

“Does that mean...girls?” he asks, later, words slightly more slurred as he waggles his eyebrows.

And Jihyeon chokes on her beer. Spills it all over the front of her dress with a wheezed breath.

“I have to—” she says, rising quickly, running blindly for the bathroom. She’s crying, she realizes, and she doesn’t know why.

 

“Here—I can help,” Kyung says, a good minute later. As Jihyeon curses, scrubs uselessly at the stained, sticky fabric.

“It’s not that serious,” Jihyeon protests, shakes her head, catching Kyung’s eyes in the bathroom mirror. “I’m fine. It’s not like—Not like—”

“Like what?”

“Not like—You _owe_ me this.”

“Owe helping with your dress?”

_Owe apologizing for making me feeling things you can’t help_.

Jihyeon shakes her head. Groans. Presses her palm against the soap dispenser for another pink dollop to rub against her chest.

“I’m sorry he said that,” Kyung starts. “That way. I know they can be a little— _crass_ ”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does. Especially if you are—Not, not that I’m assuming it’s—You know, that’s not fair. And usually I just pretend, but it’s not right...”

Jihyeon’s heart jolts. But she ignores it. Extinguishes the hope quickly, sighing, turning her attention back to her dress. It’s easier. Safer. A mindless task. A concrete problem. Not the amorphous, overwhelming, tragic heaviness of her unnamed _want_. And it’s dumb because this night is about celebrating Kyung. Not imposing these feelings, this problem. “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m fine.”

Kyung steps closer. Jihyeon turns to face her. “You’re _crying_ , Jihyeon. You always talk to me. I’m your best friend. Come _on_.”

Kyung forces Jihyeon’s chin upwards to meet her imploring gaze. Concerned eyes. Bitten bottom lip.

 

And there’s always affection there. Indulgence. Care.

But tension, too, Jihyeon thinks. Sometimes Kyung nuzzling into Jihyeon’s touch. Eyes lingering on Jihyeon’s mouth.

Right now. Right now.

Jihyeon licks her lips. Kyung follows the movement, mascared eyelashes fluttering as she does. And the something Jihyeon imagines in her eyes, it’s disarming in its beauty, its potency. Jihyeon’s lips part of their own volition.

“Are you—?” Jihyeon starts. Kyung nods slow, solemn. Reaches forward to cup Jihyeon’s cheek. Coax her into slow, hesitant, open-mouthed kiss.

Kyung cradles her face, presses her back, urging, and and the porcelain of the bathroom sink digs into the small of Jihyeon’s back as she moans into Kyung’s mouth.

Kyung whispers her name in a question, as her hand slides down to cup her neck, ghosts over her side, anchors on her waist.

Jihyeon reaches out, then cups her through her bandeau. Like she’s been _aching_ to do all night. She groans at the weight of Kyung’s breast in her palm, the way that Kyung’s chest heaves as she pulls her into a messier kiss. Jihyeon slides her fingers underneath the tight elastic, brushes over her nipple, groans as it hardens beneath her fingers, beneath her touch. Kyung gasps into her mouth.

“Here?” she asks. Nosing at Jihyeon’s jawline. “Do you want to—here?”

Jihyeon nods slowly, with a breathy _yes_ , as Kyung arches more sharply into her caress. Turns, licks at her skin.

“Tell me—tell me what you want.”

It’s a dream. It’s too perfect. Jihyeon’s gonna drown in it.

Jihyeon flushes. “Fingers,” she breathes. Kyung smirks into her next kiss. Pulls back to stare pointedly at Jihyeon’s thighs, the younger withering slightly at the attention. Tugging the hemline of her dress upwards before she can regret, think too much of it.

And then Kyung is pulling at her tights, red finger nails tearing at fishnets. Open. Off. So she can tease her fingers, feel how badly Jihyeon wants her.

“I love your mouth,” Kyung’s saying, and her own is stained residual red from the transfer of Jihyeon’s lipstick. Jihyeon blinks up at her dazedly, whimpers softly as Kyung moves her fingers in tiny, teasing circles, the barest, briefest contact over damp fabric. Jihyeon jerks. “God, I love your mouth, Jihyeon.”

Kyung coaxes her into another a kiss, and then she’s sliding her fingers under fabric, skimming slowly, and Jihyeon’s mouth is falling open, useless, as she pants against Kyung’s lips.

And Jihyeon feels stupid for it, desperate, needy, because Kyung is everything—every single thing—right then. An anchor, a beacon through the white hot pleasure. Heady, warm, comforting, perfect.

And Jihyeon thinks it's really romantic, too. Dazedly. The way that Kyung nuzzles into her neck, moans softly into Jihyeon’s throat as she eases a finger inside of her. Thrusts experimentally, encourages her softly. Enjoy. Feel. Tell me—tell me what feels good.

Jihyeon cradles Kyung’s face, drags her mouth back, kisses her harder, more desperately, tremors coursing through her veins at every slow, perfect thrust. The slow, careful stretch as Kyung works another inside. Curls, scissors, drags. The heel of Kyung’s palm grinds hard against Jihyeon’s clit, sending sharp jolts of pleasure up her trembling spine.

Drunk with it, wanthon for it, she undulates.

“Can I—” she gasps. “Can—Let me just—Touch you— _fuck, Kyung, right there_ —Touch you too.”

Kyung groans out a breathy _yes, fuck—fuck yes_ into her mouth. With her free hand, Kyung tugs down her own shorts, underwear, guides Jihyeon’s hand to her.

Still—still has the presence of mind to fuck her fingers into her. Pressing against that perfect spot. Over and over again. Teasing as Jihyeon sobs.

And Jihyeon does her best to reciprocate. Press hungry, eager fingers into that soft, velvet warmth. In greed, in gratitude. Jihyeon seeks out the best angle. Tries to provoke more desperate, beautiful sounds. Gorgeous, wrecked, stilted movements.

Jihyeon has touched herself to the fantasy of this. Other scenarios. Different locations. Positions. Kyung on her knees, blinking up at her as she sucks Jihyeon’s clit into her mouth, holds her thighs captive and Jihyeon moans, whimpers, begs to grind against her face. Kyung splayed out for her on Jihyeon’s dorm-issue mattress, fingers tangled in Jihyeon’s hair, body trembling, falling apart under Jihyeon’s mouth, Jihyeon’s fingers.

But Jihyeon—Jihyeon could never have anticipated the recklessness of Kyung’s response. The perfection of _this_. Because Kyung is always loud, playful, preening, induglent, but right now, her eyes are so dark, her voice husky, demanding, needy. And Jihyeon responds to her words, to the clenching heat writhing feverishly around her fingers. Thrusting to match Kyung’s devastatingly perfect pace.

The pleasure multiplies with every moan, every thrust. Exponential. Exquisite. Builds and and builds and builds until it crests.

And there, in a dirty hip hop club in Hongdae, with the bass rattling the sharpie-graffitied walls, Jihyeon is touched for the first time by somebody else. Comes—loud, full-bodied—at another person’s hand. Legs spasming, voice breaking, body squeaking against the wet porcelain, free arm spasming out weakly, knocking painfully against the mirror, the metal faucet.

Kyung moans at it, too. Groans about how perfect she looks. And Jihyeon tugs at her hair, sucks hard on Kyung’s lower lip, urges her to grind harder against her hand, fuck down on her fingers. Jihyeon sucks on her neck, her collarbone, presses messy praises, quiet almost “I loves you’s” as Kyung whimpers increase in volume. In pitch.

Until she jerks, trembles, pants, collapsing chin first into Jihyeon’s still-heaving form.

And Jihyeon drags her fingers to her own face, then, sucks hard, eyelashes fluttering as Kyung’s own hood with desire. Anew.

“I’ll want you again—” she says, wrapping her fingers around Jihyeon’s wrist with a bitten off curse.

“Want me again,” Jihyeon offers in challenge. _Want me again. Want me forever_.

Kyung smiles. Leans forward to kiss her nose. “I will. I will.”


End file.
